Time and Again
by moonlighten
Summary: A collection of short prequels and sequels to stories in the Feel the Fear series. Requests welcome! Multi-chapter; ongoing. Chapter 1: Gen; Chapter 2: Scotland/France.) Part of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Scotland, England, Wales Gen

**Note:** I've been meaning to do this for ages, but, as ever, got distracted by other ideas!

This will be an open-ended collection (I have no end point in mind) of short pieces set just before or after other fics in the Feel the Fear series, or telling parts of the same stories from a different character's point of view.

I have a few already in mind that I want to write, but if anyone would like to see a particular prequel/sequel/alternate POV, please comment and let me know, and I will endeavour to write it!

The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.  
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** Sequel to **Highly Effective People** ( s/10860330/1/Highly-Effective-People); the first fic I wrote in the FtF series.  
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 **29th August, 2009; Lake District, England**

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The sky is a pure, unbroken cerulean from horizon to rugged horizon. Sunlight glitters atop the crests of the waves that ripple across the lake far below, burnishing them to a brilliant gold. The only sounds to break his land's peaceful slumber is the susurrus of the breeze, flowing over this exposed hillside and gently stirring the heather.

On any other day, they might stay a while to admire the view; England quoting a line or two of Wordsworth, Wales sharing a snippet of his own, inferior verse, inspired by the moment.

But on any other day, England's stomach wouldn't be churning like a cement mixer, and Wales' complexion would be a far healthier shade than its current fire engine red. There is no poetry in England's heart right now, only anger.

"He doesn't give a shit about us, does he?" England gestures towards the faraway speck that is Scotland, a quarter-mile or so ahead of them on the trail. "Not one single, solitary shit."

"He does," Wales insists with all of his normal, misguided loyalty. "He's just…" He pauses for a moment, gasping for breath. "He's in his element, out here like this, and I think he just gets carried away."

"I doubt we've even entered his head. He shows no consideration for anyone, Wales. Not a jot. And I, for one, am sick of it." England stops dead in his tracks. "Sick of him, sick of today, and definitely sick of fucking hiking."

Wales carries on for a few more strides alone, then turns to look at England, wide-eyed and wondering.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm having a well-deserved rest, and a cup of tea," England says. "Then I'm going to back to the cottage. You can join me if you like, or scurry off after Scotland like a good boy. Your choice."

Wales' eyes linger on England for a beat longer, and then he gazes off in Scotland's direction, his bottom lip caught up between his teeth and clearly conflicted. Torn, as he always is, between the two of them.

Whilst he dithers, England finds himself a relatively dry, level spot on the ground beside the trail, sits down, and extracts a thermos from his rucksack. The gurgle and splash of the tea as England pours out a measure into a tin mug attracts Wales' attention, and he eyes it longingly.

England inhales the steam rising from the mug with exaggerated pleasure, and Wales takes a step closer. Then another when England takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid and smiles as though he's just swallowed a mouthful of ambrosia rather than a stewed, over-sweetened brew that tastes faintly of plastic, as tea from a thermos always does.

"Could I have some?" Wales asks, and England knows he has, for once, won.

"Of course," he says, magnanimous in his victory, handing the mug to Wales when he crouches beside him. "There's plenty."

They pass the mug back and forth until both it and the flask are drained, then share one of Wales' cigarettes, all in silence.

Wales stretches out his legs, leans back and stares up at a lone kestrel hovering above them; a sharp, black shape bitten out of the otherwise clear sky. England watches his brother watch the bird until Wales inhales deeply and says, "He isn't doing this just to annoy you, you know. I don't think he really understands hangovers."

"I don't think _I_ do, either," England says, eagerly grasping at the chance of a conversational detour that that remark offers. He's had his fill of talking, or even thinking, about Scotland for the day. "It makes no sense that we have them, does it? We're not really affected by any other human illnesses, so why this one in particular?"

Thankfully, Wales follows him along it easily enough, with none of his usual demands that they remain on the ever-vexatious topic that is their older brother. "I've never really thought about it, but you're right." He frowns. "It could be that we just think we _should_ be hungover, and so we are."

"Like when we get hungry, or tired." Lies that their human-shaped bodies have tricked them into believing are true. With sufficient determination, they can be overcome. "Perhaps all we need is a little willpower."

"Perhaps," Wales agrees with a grin. "Why don't we try? See if we can just… just force it all away."

England nods, and then screws his eyes closed, digging his fingers down into the damp soil beneath him; down into the earth that is his true body, vast and strong and thrumming with ancient power. It vibrates along his arms, through his chest, all the way up to his head, which… Fuck, which was pounding hard enough already, and now feels as though it might split from ear to ear. His gorge rises once more, and he can't concentrate on anything other than the resulting nausea.

Wales groans. "I must have thrown up my willpower along with everything else this morning," he says. "I can't do it. We'll have to ask _Yr Alban_ if he can teach us the trick."

Scotland _again_. Wales can't shut up about him for more than a couple of minutes at a time, seemingly. The man's obsessed.

"I'm sure we'll manage on our own," England says, smiling thinly.

"It'd be easier if he helped us, though," Wales continues, obviously not willing to be dissuaded this time. "If he could—"

Growling in frustration, England grabs hold of his rucksack and launches himself upright. "Right," he says, "I'm going to set off back to the cottage now."

"You were serious about that?" Wales boggles at him as if shocked, though England cannot imagine why. He's never been an enthusiastic participant in Scotland's hikes, even at the best of times. "Ah, well, I thought I'd see if I can catch up with him actually, so…"

He steadies himself with his hands as he pushes himself first to his knees, and then – with slow, steady caution – to his feet. Once vertical, he sways alarmingly, his face taking on a bilious tinge.

"The cottage is probably a better idea," he admits, swallowing hard. "I'm sure _Yr Alban_ will be fine. I think he prefers walking on his own, anyway."

That makes the idea of chasing after him sound almost appealing. But only almost. England isn't about to cut off his own nose to spite his face.

The cottage they're returning to might be cold, damp, and lacking in all possible amenities, but it does at least have chairs, a large supply of both aspirin and paracetamol, and a merciful lack of Scotland for at least the next few hours.

"The only way I've ever managed to keep up with him is if he happens to see some sort of interesting plant or insect," Wales says. "He'll be rooted to the spot for ages, then."

Lacking Scotland solely in body, apparently. Wales still seems determined that he accompanies them mentally, thrust to the forefront of both their minds. Forced to be a captive audience as his brother prattles on about _Cairngorms_ this and _Fomes fomentarius_ that, England begins to wish he'd never encouraged him to stay.

 _He_ likely would have been happier on his own, too; a conclusion he inevitably reaches at some point – at _several_ points – during these interminable bank holiday weekends they make themselves suffer with one another.

 _This is the last time_ , he promises himself, because it helps dull the urge to push Wales into Lake Windermere, just to shut him up. _No matter what anyone says, I'm not going to come on one of these little excursions_ ever _again._


	2. ScotlandxFrance

Sequel to Transitions ( s/10745576/1/Transitions); Scotland/France; Scotland POV.  
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3rd April, 2009; London, England**

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As soon as they arrive at England's house, France marches upstairs with an uncharacteristically heavy and robotic tread – a martial tread: one, two, three, four; hup, two, three, four – ignoring both Scotland's request to take his jacket, and England's grudging offer to make him a cup of coffee.

"What's wrong with him?" England asks, narrow-eyed and suspicious. "Apart from the obvious, I mean."

Scotland shrugs, professes not to know, but privately suspects that France might be regretting the decision he made tonight. The choice to spurn the novelty of whatever eager new lover had been awaiting his return back at the hotel and come here, with him, and the same old routine that they've carved out of the last hundred years.

England accepts him at his word and doesn't press further, and between the two of them they haul the now near-comatose Wales to his bed. He rouses into obstreperous life as soon as his back hits the mattress, though, and fights them every step of the way when they attempt to divest him of his damp coat and shoes.

They have to practically wrestle them off him in the end, and by the time Scotland returns to his own room, he's sweaty, winded, and so bone-deep weary that he actually hopes that France will have grown tired of waiting for him and settled down to sleep already.

Unfortunately, France is not only awake, but still fully clothed; standing by the foot of the bed and staring with a strangely avid intensity at the painting on the opposite wall. He's never spared it so much as a glance before, and Scotland can't imagine what he's finding so fascinating about it now.

It's a washed-out watercolour of a Highland cow that England had hung there after Scotland moved out, taking his own, far superior artwork along with him, but it's not even intriguingly ugly like the rest of England's agricultural collection. The cow is correctly proportioned, the backdrop a bland suggestion of gorse and grass, lacking even a single detail that might attract attention or catch the eye.

But France is so transfixed that he doesn't look away from it until Scotland reaches out and tentatively touches his arm. He turns towards Scotland, then, but the keen light his eyes had held vanishes in an instant, snuffed out like a candle.

"Sorry." Scotland hurriedly drops his hand, cursing himself for the imposition. He probably should have just left France well alone. "I didn't realise you were so interested in cattle."

He smiles in what he hopes is an encouraging fashion. France begins to unbutton his shirt with measured, mechanical twists of his fingers.

One of those nights, then, and they aren't even going to make a token effort at conversation beforehand. It's nowhere close to how Scotland would prefer to spend their limited time together, but at least he knows now what will be allowed. What role is expected of him.

And on nights like this, his role is that of an observer. He can admire at a distance, but if he were to touch France again, attempt to help him undress, he'd receive only spitting irritation for his troubles.

So, he steps back, and he does admire as France's body is revealed by slow degree as he dispenses with shirt and then trousers, but only in a hazy, indistinct way that barely registers in his conscious mind. Because France's skin is sickly pale, the scars that criss-cross his back standing out as clearly as if they were fresh again, and Scotland wants to follow them with his fingertips; travel them with his mouth and tongue, up and over the nape of his neck to discover whether there's still a trace there of a much older, more grievous wound.

All these years later, and he still doesn't know. France discourages such explorations; complains whenever Scotland lingers. Whenever they make— Whenever they fuck, France urges him to go harder, faster, until it's almost brutal, what he asks of him. Scotland has never much enjoyed it that way, but he'll still wank over the memory for however many weeks or months elapse until he has chance to form a new one.

He'll take what he can – what he's given – and be glad of it, because what they've had since the Great War is a tenuous thing, precariously balanced, and Scotland's uneasily aware that the slightest misstep on his part will cause everything to come crashing down on their heads again. France won't come back for a third time, Scotland's sure of that. If he hadn't been so desperate in the trenches, he likely never would have returned at all.

France neatly folds his clothes, lays them atop the chest of drawers, then runs his thumbs back and forth beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, considering his next move. Ultimately, he decides against removing them before he clambers into bed and pulls the duvet tight around himself.

He just wants to sleep, then, which is somewhat of a relief. The beer Scotland had drunk earlier that evening is already curdling in his stomach, and his body feels heavier by the moment. He doesn't think he has much _hard_ or _fast_ left in him. He'd only disappoint.

Scotland turns off the lights and undresses quickly, kicking his clothes into a messy pile that he'll sort through in the morning, then joins France in the bed. Although he tries his best not to, he accidentally nudges France in the back of the thigh with his knee as he tries to refind the most comfortable spot on the ancient, lumpy mattress.

France shuffles away from Scotland and turns on his side; possibly giving him some more space in which to settle himself, but more likely just getting out of firing range.

It still won't be far enough, and at some point during the night he'll doubtless be forced to relocate to the guest bedroom. Scotland can't blame him for that, and, really, it's a kindness, compared to how things used to be when they were younger, and France used to order him out of their bed before Scotland had even had chance to catch his breath.

England will notice their change in arrangements, of course, and make a caustic remark about it the next day over breakfast – a gloating, "Trouble in paradise," being the time-honoured favourite – to which France will make a sly insinuation about England's apparent obsession with his sleeping habits. And then they'll argue the toss and try to shout each other down, typically straight through till lunch. It's always the same. Everything's always the sa—

Scotland pummels his one thin, ageing pillow into some poor semblance of firmness, then lies back down, closes his eyes, and waits. And waits. And waits, his muscles growing ever more tense and his jaw clenching hard, for so many beats of his heart that he loses count.

France isn't going to say a word to him, seemingly; not even to bid him goodnight. He always says goodnight nowadays, though the accompanying peck on the cheek is a sporadic addition.

He must be even unhappier than he'd appeared on the surface, and his surface had been unremittingly dour since the moment he'd chosen to take that cab home with Scotland.

Scotland digs deep, draws on every ounce of determination and self-abnegation he possesses, and says. "You can still go back to the hotel if you like. I won't mind."

The bedframe creaks and the mattress springs protest as France shifts his weight, and for a moment Scotland thinks he's getting up, that he really is going to leave, but then he sighs out a long breath, and says, "Goodnight, Scotland."

The words are curtly spoken, and he doesn't follow them with a kiss, but they're still the best answer Scotland could feasibly hope to receive. He'll get to fall asleep to the sound of France's breathing, awake to the faint traces of his heat still warming the other side of the bed, and that will be enough for him.

It has to be enough.


End file.
